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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29862297">So I’ll Just Write What I Feel Down (And Hope The Masses Sing Aloud)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Tomb_With_A_View/pseuds/A_Tomb_With_A_View'>A_Tomb_With_A_View</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Julie and The Phantoms (TV 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bobby | Trevor Wilson-centric, F/F, F/M, Getting Back Together, Make up and break up, Multi, Recovery, TW: Drug Abuse, Tw: mild suicidal ideation, Tw: romanticising of unhealthy coping mechanisms, Tw: unhealthy grieving strategies, but like, it does have a happy ending i promise, it’s not instantaneous either, loosely based off this life I have by the wrecks, not slow burn slow burn, tw: alcohol abuse, tw: grieving, tw: unhealthy coping mechanisms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:54:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,871</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29862297</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Tomb_With_A_View/pseuds/A_Tomb_With_A_View</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose cries more than he does, at first. </p><p>Ray, too. </p><p>He hopes, wherever they are, that the boys don’t take that to mean anything other than that he’s too full and too empty at the same time to do anything other than let them hold him and stare at the wall. </p><p>He breaks down later, once Ray and Rose have nipped out, once there’s enough silence for him to have space to make noise, once there’s no one else there to see him break.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bobby | Trevor Wilson &amp; Carrie Wilson, Bobby | Trevor Wilson &amp; Julie Molina, Bobby | Trevor Wilson/Ray Molina/Rose, Ray Molina/Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. You Made Me Hate The Things I Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Right. Okay.<br/>So I’ve tried my best to stay away from grieving stuff because up until eight hours ago, I had no personal experience with it. I lost someone really important to me this morning, and this fic is essentially me trying to rationalise it a bit. I really don’t need condolences or anything, I’m doing okay, but. Yeah. </p><p>For context: the boys were born five years earlier and lived until they were 22 and had an established and fairly successful music career, and Ray, Rose and Bobby were kind of together kind of not, bc yk. 2000 and music careers. It’s not hugely important, but it’s just so Bobby has gotten used to music life and ray and Rose knew the boys properly.<br/>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rose cries more than he does, at first. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hopes, wherever they are, that the boys don’t take that to mean anything other than that he’s too full and too empty at the same time to do anything other than let them hold him and stare at the wall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He breaks down later, once Ray and Rose have nipped out, once there’s enough silence for him to have space to make noise, once there’s no one else there to see him break. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The police call, and he cries through it, and they hang up and he can’t stop, </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not that he doesn’t trust Rose and Ray with himself, because he trusted them with his boys and that should tell them everything he doesn’t have the words to say, but he knows if they see him cry it’ll hurt them as well, and then he’ll be crying because they’re crying and not just for himself. It’s a callous way of looking at it, he knows, but he hasn’t got room for their grief on top of his own, and he doesn’t think, really, that they’ve got room for his, either. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they get back, his face is probably red and puffy, and his eyes are likely bloodshot, but he feels a little better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Better isn’t the right word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Back to numb, maybe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The numb feels a little less oppressive, at least. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray kisses his shoulder lightly and hands him a plate of toast. They probably don’t expect him to eat it all but it still feels like too much too soon. “I know, Bee,” Rose says when he tries to push the plate away. “But you need to eat something.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers everything he’d ever read where the main character lost someone, and expects that it won’t taste of anything, or maybe of ash, but when he forces as much as he can down, it still tastes like toast, and butter, he just doesn’t care. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They need me to identify Re- them,” he admits, once he thinks he can speak. “E-Emily and Mitch are going for, going for- but I gotta… the others, they’re not - they aren’t coming.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, Bobby, sweetheart,” Ray tries, but he doesn’t get anything else out, just wraps him up in a hug. Rose takes the plate out of his hands, but quickly joins them. Usually, the two of them feel like home. They’re the only people he’s ever loved outside of his boys, and he definitely loves them differently to how he loved - loves, he still loves them, even if they’re not here to love him back - his boys, and for the last year or so they’ve been hurtling towards something, even if getting catapulted into stardom is a pretty tricky thing to date around, but all he can think about is that Alex was taller than him and Luke was shorter, the same way Ray and Rose are, and that they’re missing someone in the middle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He still doesn’t have the strength to pull away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, you don’t have to, to come. You don’t have to come inside with me, but could you… could you drive me? To the ho-hospital, I mean,” he asks. He doesn’t meet either of their eyes. He knows they could say no, it’s a big ask, and he wouldn’t begrudge them for saying it, but he wouldn’t be able to come back from it, he doesn’t think. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s never liked that particular aspect of himself. He asks them to hurt for him all the time, like when he didn’t let them kiss him when they met up with the band whilst they were playing in San Diego, because he didn’t want it to be something that could be blamed on the adrenaline of the show, and like when he agreed to play a tour up the east coast with the band without consulting two people who were essentially his partners, and like when he showed up this morning, and stared blankly at the wall while they fell apart. He wishes he could figure out a way to keep loving them and stop hurting them, but if he learned anything from the way he always argued with Luke a little to long, and the way he never quite figured out to apologise when he got too loud and Reggie flinched back, and the way Alex told him things over the phone because he could never arrange his face into anything other than a scowl even when it hurt him, it was that being loved by him and being hurt by him were so deeply intertwined that he couldn’t even dream of separating them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d gotten far too good at jumping across the stepping stones between love and hate whilst he was far too young, and he’d never learned to be afraid of falling on the wrong side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course we’ll drive you,” Rose says, pulling back enough to pull him down to rest her forehead against his. She closes her eyes so he doesn’t have to meet them, and he loves her all the more for it. “Of course we’ll drive you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first night he spends drunk, it’s intentional. He takes Rose and Ray to a bar, and opens a tab, and the band has music put out and it’s making money even if only one of them is left to do anything with it, so he orders top shelf vodka and enough of it to kill one of them alone, and by ten pm he’s drinking it like water. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first night he spends drunk, he’s with them, and they hold him when he breaks down at four in the morning, and they sit with him on the roof of their apartment building while he lays on his back and tries to count stars that he can’t see. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The day after the first night he spends drunk, they reminisce. It’s… well, it’s not nice, but it’s a distraction from the funeral planning and the contacting distant relatives and ringing Mr and Mrs Mercer and Mr and Mrs Peters twice an hour in the hopes they can take the weight off of his shoulders, and he thinks they’d want him to remember them as they lived - loud and joyful, and never content with where they were but always happy with what they had - and not as they died, so he cracks open a bottle of whiskey he’d been saving for Reggie’s wedding - or Alex, or Luke’s, but Reggie’s - Reggie’d - always loved the quickest and hardest of the four of them, and he’d refused to believe it would be anyone but Reggie getting married first - and they reminisce.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray tells them about the time he and Luke drove to Santa Fe to get a painting for Rose’s birthday, and Rose tells them about the time she and Reggie tried to take up triathlons even though she’s scared of water and he hates cycling, and he tries his best to tell them about the time he and Alex climbed Pine Mountain to prove a point to Alex’s dad. When they’re done, he stares at the ceiling and lets tears roll down his face, but he’s pretty sure it’s not just the whiskey that makes his chest feel warm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take as long as you need, Bobby,” Ray tells him, quiet enough that he’s not really broken the silence, just pressed against it. “We’re here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second night he spends drunk, it’s still intentional. By the fifth and the sixth and the seventh, he can admit to empty rooms and the cute girls who decide a sad rockstar ratarsed at a bar at six in the afternoon is a good lay - he won’t be, he’s too in love and too sex-repulsed to want to touch that kind of thing with a ten foot pole - that he’s just terrified of being sober. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bee, mi amor, you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Rose says when he stumbles through the kitchen on night ten. “This isn’t what they’d want for you. They’d want you to be happy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’m I s’pposed to be happy when they’re gone, Rosie?” He asks. He’s got enough practice at trying to keep quiet when he feels like a ball of sharp edges and imminent explosions that it doesn’t come out too harsh. “I know I. I know I live with you guys, and, and, I’d love to tell you that you’re enough, but we both know it wouldn’t be true. They were my best friends, and my work, and the only family that’s ever really felt like family. I haven’t been without them in…. in ten, twelve years.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, mi corazón,” she whispers, and then her hand is on the back of his head and his face is buried in his shoulders, and he falls apart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to try for them, he really does. He wants to pour the vodka on top of the fridge down the sink and give the crates of beer to the tech guy who followed them to Florida and all the way up to New York, but he’s just so fucking scared of how he felt that first morning, so numb and desperate and alone, that he knows it’s not going to happen, not yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He loves them far too much to even consider asking them to wait for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bee, sweetheart, what are you doing?” Ray asks, even though it’s got to be obvious from the shit he’s shoving into his bag. “Woah, woah, cariño, calm down, talk to me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I gotta- I can’t,” he doesn’t manage to get anything out, but he lets Ray ease his grip on the bag and pull him into a hug. “I can’t keep doing this to you both, love,” he manages eventually. His hands are shaking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray shakes his head and presses his cheek against his hair. “No, no, Bobby, Cielo, you’re not - you’re grieving, you’re allowed to hurt. We’re hurting too, we don’t begrudge you any of this.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe you should,” he says, gripping the back of Ray’s t-shirt to give his hands something to do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or maybe we shouldn’t,” Ray says firmly. “You can get better, but we know you’ll need time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to get better,” he admits, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t want to keep hurting you guys but I can’t - I can’t do it, I don’t want to feel it. I can’t live in that first day, you gotta, I can’t-” he chokes down a sob, and hopes Ray doesn’t notice the tears rolling down his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… oh.” Ray presses a kiss against his temple. “You don’t have to leave, though, do you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know I do,” he says, and lets go of Ray’s t-shirt to hug him tighter than he thinks he’s ever hugged anybody. He’s never known he was saying goodbye before, after all. “Please don’t think I don’t love you, Ray. I do, I love you both so-so much.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know you do,” Ray tries to say, but it comes out a whisper, and cracks in the middle. “I love you, too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stay there like that for what could be five or ten or twenty minutes, until the weight of Ray around him starts to feel restraining instead of relieving. He still pulls back slowly, and leans up to kiss Ray gently. “I’m gonna go say bye to Rosie,” he says, forehead pressed against Ray’s. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do, but there’s a house-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray pulls back. “Don’t you dare,” he starts, eyes glassy. “Bobby, I swear to god-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fully paid off,” he continues anyway. “It was gonna - I was gonna… I don’t need it,” he finally manages lamely. “You guys shouldn’t be worrying about rent when I’m fucking off, and I want you to have it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You bastard,” Ray whispers and pulls him back in. It’s half a kiss and half just faces pressed together, and it doesn’t taste like anything but tears. Bobby moves until it’s their cheeks pressed together instead. “You’re a fucking bastard.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” he echoes himself. “But it’s not. It’s not forever. Not that I’m asking you to wait for me, I’m not - I wouldn’t. But… I just. I can’t be here, but one day I’m coming back.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray laughs, and squeezes him so hard around the waist his feet lift off the ground. “I’m gonna punch you in the face.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll deserve it,” he says, pulling back. This time feels more final. He finishes shoving his things in his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I’ll. Uh. I’ll see you around, Ray.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray rakes a hand through his hair. “Yeah, Bobby. I’ll see you around.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods until it feels awkward, then walks out. He knows at this hour Rose will be in the kitchen, and he’s not disappointed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knows what’s happening immediately. “Absolutely not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rosie, honey-” he holds both hands up, and takes her hands when she gets close enough. “Rosie, honey, please listen to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes are already glassy. “No, no, you’re not leaving, Bobby, you’re not fucking leaving.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know I gotta,” he says, and lets her surge forward to hug him. “I don’t - I can’t keep hurting you guys.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not your decision whether or not we can take it,” she insists, face buried in his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He considers his words for a moment, and kisses her forehead before pulling back enough that he can make eye contact. “You know I’m not. You know I’m not gonna get better when - if, no, when - I’m trying to, to make sure you’re not getting hurt. I gotta go just… be a dumbass for a while. If I learn how to - to, I don’t know, hide it and convince you I’m fine… you know that won’t work, Rosie, you know that” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose sags against him, and he wraps his arm around her, swaying slowly. “I hate you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s fair,” he admits, even though he can feel the wet patch from her tears on his shirt growing. “I love you, though. A-And,, um. I told Ray about this house, the one we were talking about. I want you guys to have it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up, Bobby,” she demands, leaning up on tip toes to kiss him firmly before hugging him again. “I don’t care about the fucking house. I just… you’re leaving, and I don’t - I don’t want you to go, so will you just shut </span>
  <em>
    <span>up</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he agrees. Usually he’d squeeze his eyes shut or look at the ceiling when they’re burning this much, but Rose needs to know that this isn’t some cop out to break up with them, and that he means it when he explains that he’s doing it because they all need it, not because he wants to. “I’m gonna miss you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You better come back.” She moves so both her arms are wrapped around his rib cage instead of one slung over his shoulder, and she feels impossibly small against him. “I don’t. I don’t care if it’s not to be with us, but this is not a goodbye, Robert Wilson, you hear me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hear you, cariño,” he promises, and tries to ignore how she shudders, tears welling anew in both their eyes. “I promise it’s not goodbye.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Now I Love These Drugs That Numb The Pain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He thought he could drink it away and dull it down the way he’d been doing with everything else and that it would just fade, and join the collection of scars littered across his heart to match the ones littered across the rest of him. It’s honestly pretty fucking annoying that heartbreak seems to be harder to dull than losing his entire family in one go, but he’s always been a tricky bastard like that. Death is too big a concept to really wrangle with without a lot of proper thought, and dulling the loss with alcohol makes it pretty easy to forget about.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The saga continues, have some fun times /s<br/>Reminder that this fic deals with some pretty heavy stuff, and it’s just me working some issues out, so please be careful if you think you might be triggered by anything in the tags </p>
<p>Disclaimer: I’ve never been to rehab or done anything more serious than an edible, so that’s why reference to everything is pretty vague, I did some research, but I don’t wanna misrepresent anything, so if you think I’ve done that, please reach out and let me know what changes to make </p>
<p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He thought it would be easier to leave them, considering how numb he’d been feeling for days. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought he could drink it away and dull it down the way he’d been doing with everything else and that it would just fade, and join the collection of scars littered across his heart to match the ones littered across the rest of him. It’s honestly pretty fucking annoying that heartbreak seems to be harder to dull than losing his entire family in one go, but he’s always been a tricky bastard like that. Death is too big a concept to really wrangle with without a lot of proper thought, and dulling the loss with alcohol makes it pretty easy to forget about. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heartbreak isn’t quite the same. Every time the thought of his boys creeps up on him, he turns to either side, used to the ever present reassurance and touch, and remembers that for the first time in years, he’s alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one who knew him as a kid would be surprised to see that this is how he turned out. An idiot sat in a bar at five thirty in the afternoon, sixth beer of the night in hand and tears slowly rolling down his face as the first song he ever wrote by himself - dedicated to Ray and Rose, of course - started to play over the shitty speakers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s weird how inconsequential things like that had seemed at the time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he wrote that, he’d always expected that listening to it would be amazing. For someone so insistent that they shouldn’t label things or make them official, he’d always been so fucking certain that he’d have them forever. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bartender gives him a weird look at the bitter laugh he directs at his beer, but obligingly hands him a tumbler of gin with a quiet “sorry for your loss”. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a week or two too late for condolences for the boys’ death, which is just now becoming public news, but he pretends the guy magically knows about his not-quite-break up, and nods his thanks all the same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even that’s too much thinking about either of the things he’s actively trying to avoid, so he drains the glass and pays his tab, and racks his brain for somewhere that’ll already have a livelier scene. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not really a partier, and he started hated being drunk years ago, but the only place where no one’ll care where he is is amongst a crowd of people who’re more into the electropop scene than rock and who’re high out of their goddamn minds on whatever the drug du jour is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s usually not one for dabbling in that kind of thing either, but he lost two thirds of his life in one morning and threw away the rest two weeks later, all so he could do things like this without hurting anyone but himself, so he accepts the first pill someone offers him, and hopes to god it doesn’t kill him so he can keep his promise to Rose and Ray. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That promise is all that keeps him alive over the next few months, if he’s really honest about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first couple of days after Lu- after the boys died, he’d promised himself he’d live for them, be happy for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not done a fantastic job on keeping that particular promise, but he’s determined to keep this one. He’ll take the time he needs to push his body to the limit, until he can think of their names and not feel like he’s carving them into his skin with burning blades, and then he’ll go home, no matter what’s waiting for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s an easier promise to keep, really.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hard to stay faithful to people who don’t really exist anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he’s miserable for the rest of his life, his boys will be none the wiser. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he dies, well… he’s not enough of an idiot to think Rose and Ray would be fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he goes to clubs and raves and bars and even weird “British-style” pubs that serve warm beer and food that’s far too homely for comfort, and he ingests whatever he’s given as long as he gets an assurance it’s not rat poison, and days blur to weeks blur to months, until a lady he doesn’t remember calls him on a phone he forgot he had. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The lady’s name is Lola.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lola’s six weeks pregnant and doesn’t believe in abortion, but refuses to have anything to do with the child. She argues with him over the phone about paternity tests and child support and shared custody, but he remembers being an unwanted kid. He remembers holding conversations with himself and with his toys because there was no one else to talk to him, and he remembers the way it used to burn when his teachers or people at school would hug him, and he remembers waiting for hours outside school because he wasn’t allowed to leave by himself at eleven, but no one had remembered to pick him up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers how quickly he latched onto Emily and Mitch Patterson, how desperate he was for Mr and Mrs Mercer’s approval, how much he’d flourished when Rose and Ray had started taking him home to meet their families. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he’s letting this kid even potentially go through that. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t remember anything about Lola, it doesn’t matter that the one time he’d tried screwing around with Luke he’d thrown up, it doesn’t matter that he’s not been able to lose himself to sex the same way he has drugs, because he’s too in love and too uninterested, because he knows a lot of things he doesn’t remember aren’t things that didn’t happen. There’s a kid who might be his, who might grow up with nobody if he doesn’t step the fuck up, right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He steps the fuck up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rehab is a blur of routines and cravings and throwing up curled over gross toilets and chanting his promise to Ray and Rose - and a new promise to a baby that’s currently just a clump of cells which he’s decided will be called Caroline-Anne Regina Wilson or Benjamin Lucas Wilson, after Alex’s siblings, who always meant so much more to Alex than anything as superficial as his name, then Luke and Reggie - under his breath even as his hands shake and his body revolts. There's days he wishes he’d never had a single drink before in his life and there’s days he wants nothing more than to be blackout drunk doing a line of coke off a stranger’s shoulder in a motel bathroom, and there’s days he just doesn’t want to exist anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Most days he just misses everything. He misses Reggie and his dumb jokes and honest smiles, and Luke with his neverending love and raging emotions and Alex and his sharp comments and his five hour hugs, and he misses the band and the way the four of them together, and he misses Ray and Rose and the person he was when he was loved and wanted and when he loved and wanted in return. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s more honest than most of the other people in the group therapy, can easily admit that he wanted to lose himself and that he’s not got much desire to find himself, he just wants to do what he needs to do until he’s safe to be around, until he doesn’t need a drink to start the day or a drink with breakfast, or a joint with lunch, or a pill instead of dinner. He tells the therapist and the group that he’s not interested in working through his grief or processing his losses, but that he just wants to be a father to a kid that doesn’t exist yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doctor, a posh English lady who tells them to call her Madeleine, doesn’t take that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pushes him until he’s sobbing, and she’s colder than he’d expect with a programme that has so many fucking smiley faces, and there’s only one or two times that he doesn’t leave the therapy sessions feeling like he’s been rolled on burning coals and whipped to bleeding, but by the time they tell him he’s okay to be discharged, he feels more like a person than he’s felt in a long time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he’s packing his things, Madeleine knocks on his door. “Mr Wilson?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up, and for a minute, his breathe is punched out by a memory of the last time someone walked in on him packing. “Yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Before you leave, I think we should talk,” she says, and sits on the bed opposite his. They never game him a roommate, but he doesn’t know if that’s because he’s mildly famous and the possibility of having a fan in the same room as him is violently disturbing, or if they just didn’t need it. “You don’t like your name.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” He asks, blinking dazedly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She eyes him like he’s said something particularly stupid. “Sit down, please, Robert.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He jerks, a little. She’s the only one who really calls him that, and it gets him every time. No one here even really calls him Bobby, just dude, or man, or Bro. It’s a little too familiar, but it’s better than a string of nicknames and endearments. The receptionist called him sweetheart on his first day and he broke down sobbing. He sits down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think,” she says slowly, like he’s some sort of cornered animal. He probably looks like one, if he’s honest. “That from what you’ve told me, your name was an important part of all of your lost relationships. Your band mates-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“- my brothers,” he interrupts. “They were my brothers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your brothers,” she acquiesces, “would use a variety of nicknames, that you would reciprocate, and your actual name, a nickname itself, was only used for serious occasions, am I correct?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh. Yeah, I guess?” He shrugs, still trying to get his brain in gear for the conversation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And with your… romantic partners, they would also use Bobby for serious conversations, and a variety of endearments. Am I correct?” She asks again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scrubs a hand over his face. “Um. Yeah.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe that, what with your limited interactions with people outside of your brothers and romantic partners, your name means more to you than people’s names often do.” Madeleine  studies him as he says it, gaze harsh, but expression softer. “I think you might benefit from changing it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He probably looks like a gormless idiot, sat there gaping at a lady that regularly scrapes him raw emotionally at such a small suggestion. “You think I should </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shrugs. It’s dainty and pointed in a way he could never manage. “I think you should change your name. Start anew. You’re a big name in the industry, but the industry gets used to changed surnames and it can get used to changed forenames. Besides,” she smiles wryly, but it looks… sad. “I hardly think you’re about to start writing anytime soon, although I do sincerely hope you make it to that point, some day.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, wait wait.” He holds a hand up. “Why do you think I should change my name? What’s wrong with my name?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sighs. “You flinch every time someone says it, Mr Wilson. Less so when I use Robert, but you’re clearly still not a fan. Names are the first things we tend to learn about people. Sometimes they’re the only thing we learn about people. Do you really want to be known as a person you don’t think you are anymore? You introduce yourself as Rob, until people recognise you, I doubt you have much connection to Bobby Wilson, except for sharing in his losses.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I-I…” he stammers for a minute, trying to think of a reasonable thing to say. “I can just do that? Don’t you think… if I’m not Bobby Wilson, then what am I supposed to be?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Madeleine just arches both eyebrows. “Who do you want to be?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does want to be Bobby Wilson, is the thing. As a baby, he’d been Robert Wilson, sometimes Robbie, but mainly just Robert. Robet Wilson had been unwanted and unloved, and he’d waited for hours for people who wouldn’t pick him up and learned far too young what cigarettes smell like and how weird beer feels on your tongue. Then he’d met Luke Patterson, and he’d become Bobby. Bobby Wilson had had friends, and he’d grown to have brothers, and a not-quite-boyfriend and girlfriend, who’d loved him every inch he’d loved them, and he’d had fans and a job and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>passion</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He didn’t have any of those things anymore, some things by his own design, some things by fate’s. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, you know what I’d name my kid? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Luke’s voice rings in his ears. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d name him Trevor. If the poor fucker survived the hardship of growing up with a name like that, he’d be ready for anything. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles at Madeleine, and decides he doesn’t care if she can see his eyes watering. “I’d like to be called Trevor, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods, and smiles at him. He’s not seen her do that much, and not like this. She’s got an array of smiles for patients, gentle, and comforting, and sad, but this one is a little proud. It reminds him of Rose. “Of course, Trevor. I’ll ask Jenny at reception to get you the directions to the local courthouse, if that’s okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d… i’d really like that, thanks, Madeleine.” He starts packing his things again, but she stops before the door and squeezes his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you’ll be an excellent father, Trevor,” she says firmly. “And if you think you’re going to need a hand with that, I have an excellent colleague in downtown LA, who I think you’d mesh very well with, if you’d like his contact details as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, and holds a hand out for her to shake, smiling as best he can when she takes it. It’s the first time he’s smiled without the aid of something in months. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good luck with the future, Mr Wilson. I wish you all the best.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Trevor says. “I wouldn’t be here without your help. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. So Much To Live For I Could Die</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The first thing Trevor does when he’s done being talked at by the receptionist and the important people who get business from famous people promoting their centres and the head therapist who gives him a list of contacts even though he’s pretty sure he’s going to call the Dr Crystal that Madeleine recommended, is arrange a meet with Lola.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And now things start to look up, yay! </p>
<p>No particular trigger warnings or disclaimers for this except I have no idea how tf babies work or how house buying works, I just guessed a lot </p>
<p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first thing Trevor does when he’s done being talked at by the receptionist and the important people who get business from famous people promoting their centres and the head therapist who gives him a list of contacts even though he’s pretty sure he’s going to call the Dr Crystal that Madeleine recommended, is arrange a meet with Lola.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even once he meets her face to face with a clear mind and a liver more than a hair’s breadth from failure, he doesn’t have any memory of her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Robbie, hi,” she says, which is an indicator that they’ve met, because he’d tended to introduce himself as Rob. “Thanks for asking to meet me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s Trevor, now,” he says as he shakes her hand. “Thanks for agreeing to come.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course.” She smiles and sits down. “So, you’ve been in for three months, so I have some news, a lot happens in a pregnancy in three months.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she hands him an ultrasound picture, he isn’t expecting tears to well up in his eyes. He probably should’ve, to be fair, he spent way too much of rehab crying. “God… is it a boy or a girl?” He asks once he’s sure his voice won’t crack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A girl,” she tells him gently, squeezing his hand over the table. “You’re having a daughter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, and wipes at his eyes. “Um. I meant to ask, do you have any requests for the name?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s your daughter,” Lola says, shaking her head. “It’s all up to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Caroline-Anne Regina,” he says immediately. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, even though he’s been thinking of it for two months, but it sounds perfect. “Carrie for short.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lola smiles. Her eyes look a little wet, but she’s clearly not as emotionally invested as he is. “That’s really pretty.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor clears his throat. “Thanks. Um. I mainly just wanted to check in on you and make sure you don’t need anything? Y’know, I still get money from our music, and, and… the boys left everything to me and my. Um. Our friends, so I can set you up if you need anything at all.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s really sweet of you,” she says. “But I didn’t get in contact with you for your money, I just thought the baby - Carrie - I thought Carrie deserves at least a chance at being with her father before I went the adoption route.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods. “I’m still - I’m so grateful for that Lola, you don’t understand. I always. I thought I’d have kids. A lot of things have changed, but I still can’t wait to be a father.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles at him. It’s pretty faint, like she doesn’t really understand where he’s coming from, but it’s still there. “So. Where are you living at the moment?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor shrugs. “At a hotel, currently. I called an estate agent on the way to meet you, though, and I’m gonna visit some… old friends. I don’t know how they’ll take it, though, so it’ll probably be a new place.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds really good,” she assures him. “I really hope it works out with your old friends.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.” He squeezes her hand gently. “Would you. Um. Would you mind if I came with you to appointments, or is that too much? I understand if it is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d like that.” She stands up, brushing imaginary lint off her lap. “I’ll call you when I know when my next one is?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds great.” He nods, smoothing his thumb over the ultrasound again. “Thank you, Lola.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods, a little awkward. “That’s for you,” she says after a moment. “I don’t. I’m not really interested in keeping that kind of thing, but I thought you might want it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wipes his eyes again roughly. “I do. I really do.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor decides to go house shopping </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>he calls Rose. He doesn’t want either of them to think he’s burned through the unimaginable amounts of money he’s gotten after the boys passed, and he doesn’t want them to think he’s only back because he needs them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does need them, but not because he needs a place, or because he doesn’t think he can be a father. He needs them because, as he’s slowly beginning to realise, he’s just as human as Al - as his brothers turned out to be, and just because he’s not vibrating every inch with how much he loves life and with how much he loves being alive and with how much he loves everyone, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t still need an outlet for the love building in his chest for Caroline-Anne, and for the love that’s been there since the first time Rose called him and Ray </span>
  <em>
    <span>her boys, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it doesn’t mean he doesn’t still need to be loved in return. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, Mr Wilson, you’re definitely interested in an isolated place?” The estate agent asks, barely glancing up at him when he walks in. “You don’t want anything in Beverly Hills, or downtown Hollywood?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs, and he can tell from the agent’s expression that it probably comes across just as bitter as it sounded to him, but he lost his brothers quite publicly only a year and a bit ago - Jesus Christ how has it already been over a year - and it just feels weird for it to be expected that he’ll jump back into the limelight without them. Hell, he’s already been ignoring calls from the band’s manager and people at the record label who must’ve heard from someone who’d heard from someone that he was out of rehab. “No, thank you. Um. Big enough for a kid, lots of space, and a lot of land, as well, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, Mr Wilson. Any other requirements?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Miami, I think,” he says eventually. His grandparents had had a place out in Miami, and it had been the one place Robert Wilson had felt at home. “Not too close to the beach though. Maybe on a cliff by the water? Don’t worry too much about that one, though. Just a thought.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have the perfect thing,” the agent tells him, straightening out a pile of papers. “Let me grab you the paperwork, and if you like it, I’ll see when we can organise a viewing?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds great, thank you.” He fidgets awkwardly as she disappears into a back room, glancing around at the pictures of houses. They all look pretty homely, and he considers momentarily getting a place like that, but he knows anything too… normal will just make him miss Ray and Rose even more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The agent appears after a minute with a stack of papers, and waits patiently as he flicks through them, noting the price and the acreage and the number of rooms. Eventually he looks back up at her. “I’ll take it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She blinks. “Um. Do you want a viewing?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor shrugs. “What’s the point? I’ll take it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, of course. Uh. Do you have a cheque-book on you for the deposit?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so,” he says, rifling through his bag, and hoping she can’t tell it’s the current long and short of his belongings. “Yes, here we go. How much is it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She rattles off a price, clearly a little disbelieving about how willing he is to pay immediately, but takes the cheque when he hands it over. “You can pick up the keys tomorrow morning, I’ll just need to speak with the owner.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds great. Is there any time that’s good for you?” He asks, shouldering his bag as he stands up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any time after three should be great,” she says. “I’ll see you then?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, see you then,” he agrees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes three calls for Rose to pick up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s understandable, it’s not like he’s ringing from a number she’ll recognise, even though his heart jolts with every single ring until she finally picks up. “Hello?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has to stifle a sob at the sound of her voice. “Hey, Rosie… it’s me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bobby?” She asks, and he can already hear the way it breaks. “Bobby are you okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um. I go by Trevor, now, actually,” he says helplessly, sitting down on the closest bench. “I’m. I’m in the area, could we meet up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, of course,” she agrees immediately. “We live at. At that place you got us. You can come over now, if you want?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is Ray there?” He asks, unable to stop himself. “You guys still together?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughs, but it sounds wet. “Yeah, Bo-Trevor. Ray’s still here, we’re still together. You gonna come over?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d love to,” he says, standing up to wave down a taxi as it passes, listing off the address as easily as if he’d been visiting for years. “How. How’ve you both been?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s just talk when you get here,” Rose says. “But… we’ve missed you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I've missed you too,” he replies immediately, surprised at how easily it comes out. Admissions of emotions have always been hard for him, and one of his greatest fears has always been that his boys and Ray and Rose never knew how much he loved them. He hopes he’s got a second chance to show Ray and Rose, even if it’s already way too late for his boys. He hopes somewhere they’re looking down on him, and that they know he’s naming his daughter after them, and that he’s getting better, and that although his heart isn’t as strong anymore, it’s because it’s beating for the four of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, what’ve you been up to?” Rose asks after a moment of awkward silence. “I… I expected to hear from you a bit sooner, to be honest, cariño.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has to bite his wrist to stop himself breaking down at the term of endearment, and by the time he’s gotten himself back in order, he’s too close to possibly start the explanation. “I’m. I’m just a couple of minutes out, Rosie, d’you think it can wait?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure,” she agrees. She doesn’t hang up, though, she just stays on the line as the car pulls up outside the house he got them, and as he pays the driver, and as he climbs out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose is standing outside the house when he turns to look at it, and just the sight of her punches the wind out of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s in his arms before he can collapse, not covering him with kisses like she used to, but still holding him steady.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose had always been the strongest of the six of them, always better at trusting them to catch her when she fell and always better at processing what she was going through. Ray was next, but Trevor had probably been the worst of it. He let his boys pick up on everything and act from there, and he didn’t stop Ray and Rose from learning to do that, too, but for some reason he’d never learned to trust them in return. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does, now, though. He lets her hold him as he breaks down in tears, let’s her rub his back and press her cheek against his hair, and he can tell she’s crying too, so he tries his best to make the way he’s holding her as comforting in return as possible, but he lets her direct him and shush him and whisper things in Spanish even though he’d not gotten as far as hushed and whispered endearments when he’d started learning way back when. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re home,” she murmurs - in English - eventually, letting him pull back. “You’re alive, too, which is always good to see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did promise, didn’t I?” He tries to joke, but he can tell it falls a little flat. “I promised,” he repeats, hoping she can tell how much that promise has kept him going.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You promised your boys you’d keep safe for them, too,” she reminds him, hands on her hips. She looks like her mom, like that. “And then you disappear for over a year.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ducks his head. “Yeah. I know. I’m… I’m really sorry, Rosie. I’m really fucking sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” she says gently, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve come back to us. I’ve missed you a lot, and I’ve been worried sick.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry about that, too,” he promises. “And, and. I’ve got a place, not ages and ages away, and I’m sober, properly sober, Rosie, I promise. I’m getting better. I’m gonna be better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Rose can say anything else, the door opens. Ray’s stood there, arms crossed over his chest, tears already flowing. “You fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he announces, but instead of punching Trevor in the face like he’d promised, he’s got his arms folded around him in a heartbeat, and something in his chest that he hadn’t even known was loose settles back into place. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor just lets himself relax into it, hugging back as tightly as he had when he’d said goodbye. “Hi, Ray.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. I Don’t Deserve Your Attention (I Don’t Deserve It One Bit)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“So. Um. What do you wanna know?” Trevor asks, cradling a cup of tea like if he’s not gripping it with all he has, he’ll drop it.</p>
<p>Considering how hard his hands were shaking when Rose offered it to him, it’s pretty possible. </p>
<p>“Everything, Bee, uh, Trev,” Ray says, curled up on the armchair like he’s not over six feet tall. “Everything.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi kids, penultimate chapter, not too far to go </p>
<p>Disclaimer/trigger warning: a lot of discussion of death and grieving in this one kiddos, be careful </p>
<p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“So. Um. What do you wanna know?” Trevor asks, cradling a cup of tea like if he’s not gripping it with all he has, he’ll drop it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Considering how hard his hands were shaking when Rose offered it to him, it’s pretty possible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything, Bee, uh, Trev,” Ray says, curled up on the armchair like he’s not over six feet tall. “Everything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor nods. “Bee is fine,” he says, mostly into his tea. “My. My therapist told me to change my name - not my therapist, well, she was my therapist, but she’s not my therapist anymore - because she thought I don’t really… I guess I’m not really Bobby anymore. She thought it might be a good fresh start. But I still.” He laughs awkwardly. “I still like Bee.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray nods. “Thanks for telling us. Go from the beginning?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor winces. “It’s not pretty.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s okay,” Rose reassures him. “We didn’t expect it to be.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” He breathes out shakily. “So. Um. I don’t really remember… most of the first ten months?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray whistles lowly. “¡Joder! Ten months?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ha… yeah.” Trevor nods, not looking up from his tea. “Uh. But then about three and a bit months ago I got a call from a girl called Lola. She said we’d spent a couple nights together, and that she was pregnant.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose coughs on her tea. “You? Got a girl pregnant?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor shrugs. “I did some shit, Rosie. I didn’t even recognise her when I meant to meet her, but y’know. She called me Robbie, showed me a picture of us hanging out. She agreed to take a paternity test and whatever, but the bottom line is, she doesn’t want the kid. I don’t even care if she’s not mine, at this point.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You always did like kids,” Ray says quietly. “Um. How far along is she? Do you have a place to stay? Is it permanent? Have you got space for a baby? Do you need anything from us?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Woah, slow down, sunshine,” Trevor says without thinking, then winces when he realised what he’s said. “Shit. Um. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay,” Ray says, but he sounds a little shaken.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just meant. Uh, I’m okay. I bought a place, I’m getting the keys tomorrow, she’s four months along, there’s plenty of space for the baby, and I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>anything. But, if you’re okay with it, and I totally understand if you’re not, I know I’m asking a lot. But... I’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>my two best friends back. I’m willing to start at square one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose made a small sound. “We don’t have to start at square one, Trevor. It wouldn’t work anyway. And I’m...I’m. Erm. I’m four months along as well,” she admits quietly. “With a girl. I’d kind of like my best friend around for that, as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, Rosie, congratulations,” Trevor says, looking up from his tea. “Do you have a name in mind?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose nods, and when she smiles, her eyes are glassy. “Julie Lucile.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts his tea down before he can drop it, and then he’s across the room in seconds, kneeling in front of her. “Lucile for Luke?” He asks quietly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. I’m uh. I’m sorry if we’re stepping on your toes,” she says, but she looks happier than he ever remembers her looking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It fits </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfectly,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he breathes. “Julie Lucile, and Caroline-Anne Regina.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Caroline after Alex’s sister?” Ray asks as he settles on the sofa next to Rose, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly,” Trevor agrees, then stands up, suddenly feeling like he’s not sure where any of his limbs should go. “I’m really happy for you guys.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks, Bee.” Rose smiles up at him. “They’re gonna be best friends, right?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor doesn’t mention how in another life, maybe they’d be sisters, he knows that’s too much, far too fucking soon. In another life he wouldn’t have fucked off and got a girl pregnant. In another life he wouldn’t have fucked off at all. He can’t imagine any way Carrie-Anne would’ve come to exist in those lives, though.There isn’t really any life that he can imagine Carrie-Anne and Julie being sisters, really, but a guy can dream. “Of course, Rosie. The bestest of best friends.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray clears his throat, and Trevor quickly settles back down, clutching his tea again. “So, what happened after you met the girl?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I checked myself into rehab,” Trevor admits. “I was in for ninety days, and I got out this morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Merde,” Rose and Ray say at the same time. The both of them are looking at him like with the same kind of sympathy and pity and something that he would probably call bittersweet longing if he saw it in the mirror, but he’s not stupid enough to expect them to still want him like that after everything he’s put them through. It’s overwhelming and mildly nauseating, but he’s missed them so much that they could be looking at him with complete disgust and he’d probably still take it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh. That’s when I was seeing the therapist. Her name was Madeleine, and she was supposed to be helping us get sober and stuff, I guess - which </span>
  <em>
    <span>sucked - </span>
  </em>
  <span>but she also wanted to deal with, like, the causes of addiction and stuff,” he explains haltingly. “Like, Alex, Luke and Reggie dying. A-And me breaking up - I guess it wasn’t really breaking up with you because we technically weren’t together, but that was my fault as well - with you guys to… “give myself free reign to self destruct”,” he adds, doing air quotations. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose snorts, but the tears trailing down her face ruin its effect. “She sounds like a smart lady, Trev. I’m glad you found her.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She is,” he agrees. “She gave me contact details for a therapist in Hollywood, and she recommended an addiction support group she thinks I’d mesh with better than the Alcoholics Anonymous type thing. She didn’t take any of my shit.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s the kind of person you need,” Ray jokes. “Hard-headed idiot that you are.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Trevor sighs. “She sure whipped me into shape. I was a mess at the start of it, and she just… took none of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m really happy for you, Bee,” Ray tells him gently. Trevor remembers that tone of voice, but the only time it had been used in his direction asides those first two weeks after his boys died, it had been much happier settings than this. In bed usually, and early mornings, when he was cooking and Ray would plaster himself against Trevor’s - Bobby’s, Ray had loved Bobby, not Trevor - back and use that voice as he said good morning and asked about what he was cooking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries not to look too affected, but when he speaks, his voice breaks. “Thanks, sunshine.” He breathes out shakily, and laughs at himself. “God, look at the three of us. Gotta say, I never expected to see us here. You two, maybe. Not crying over little ol’ me, though, but definitely starting a family.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose wipes her eyes. “You were always gonna be here when we did that, Bee. Sure, maybe this isn’t how I would’ve planned it, but you were always gonna be here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets settled into the place in Miami. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s weird, so much bigger than he’s used to, and he never expected to be starting a family alone, but he gets pictures of his boys hung up, and their platinum records, now that he can finally bear to look at them, and he makes one of those shitty walls of fairy lights and Polaroids of him and his boys and Ray and Rose, and the crew that came on tour with them, and in the middle of it all, he hangs Carrie-Anne’s ultrasound. It doesn’t quite feel like home, but his first meeting with Dr Crystal informs him that he’s still got an image of home built up in his head that involves a bed big enough for three people and a vanity table for Rose and a knife collection for Ray, and a spare room for Rose’s sister, Victoria, who’s quite possibly Bobby’s favourite person in the world, and a nursery for a baby that he thinks he’d name Julie Caroline, or Julie Anne, and it would be down the road from Alex and Reggie and Luke, and it would be somewhere where Alex could go on dates with his boyfriend and Bobby could go on dates with </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>boyfriend, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>as great as that is,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dr Crystal had said, handing him a cup of coffee, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you can’t live out the happy ending of a book you’re not living in. You have to write a new one. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how to write a happy ending when he’s not sure what book he’s living in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how to write at all, really. He hasn’t touched his guitar since the sound check the night the boys died, and he hasn’t sung a single note either. His songbook got burnt, at some point, he’s pretty sure. He has a faint memory of smoke and flames and the feeling of freedom, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He invites Rose and Ray and Jamie and Steph from the crew over for dinner and to help him paint the nursery. Ray and Rose between them get a huge mural up along one wall of a field filled with sunflowers and fireflies. There’s a little bumblebee curled up in the centre of a sunflower right near the bottom, and Trevor’s knees almost give out when Rose points to it with a proud smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows there’s no going back to what they had, but he knows he’s not going to stop loving them either. Bobby wouldn’t have been content with not acting on it, would’ve said something and pushed things forward, but Trevor has learned to take stock of what he’s got.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s got friends and he’s got Rose and Ray, and he’s got a daughter and a girl that will be just as close as a daughter on the way, and he’s happy with where he is as well as with what he’s got. He thinks his boys would be proud of him for that at least. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He starts humming around the house, but only when he’s alone. He doesn’t know why it starts, but he breaks down crying when he realises he’s humming Te Amo under his breath. He doesn’t tell Ray and Rose the song, but when he tells them he’s started humming again, they cry as well. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sings for the first time since his boys died when he hears Carrie-Anne’s heartbeat for the first time. Well, not immediately, but when he’s driving home from the appointment, Isn’t She Lovely comes on on the radio. By the time he gets to the end of the song, his eyes have blurred so much that he has to pull over just to sit and compose himself until he’s safe enough to drive home. His voice sounds dreadful, and Luke is probably cursing him from beyond the grave, but he’s probably smiling that stupid fond smile of his that always made Trevor feel like he’d won something. Alex is probably stood at his shoulder, telling him to shut up and just be happy for him, and Reggie is probably running about, whooping and cheering.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t help with the breaking-down-crying thing, but when he finishes sobbing into his steering wheel, he feels like one of the gaping cuts on his heart has closed up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he drives home, he sketches out a shitty rendition of the Sunset Curve logo with their four instruments in front of it, in the positions they’d usually stand in, and he calls a tattoo artist he knows in the area, who agrees to have a look at it and make something of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hard to believe he doesn’t have a tattoo yet, really, what with all the other moronic decisions he’s been making over the past few years, but he’s glad he decided to wait. He knows he’s going to get something for Carrie-Anne, too, but he thinks he’ll wait until she’s born for that, considering that it’s only three months now to go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The artist he reaches out to comes up with something incredible, and he’s not even slightly ashamed when he wells up when the woman shows him it. It’s an inverse of the logo, with the background the colours they’d done the accents in, and the lettering in black, and there’s Alex’s drums, and Reggie’s bass, and his and Luke’s guitars, all at jaunty angles, Alex’s sticks crossed in the air, like there’s invisible musicians playing them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurts to get it done.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mainly because of the needle being punched in and out of his skin for hours on end, but also because this is it. He’s accepted, really, for a while now that they're gone, but he hasn’t done </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it. He’s just been sitting around making money off the increase of sales that came with their deaths, and he’s not done anything to memorialise them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not even said goodbye properly, for fucks sake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once the tattoo is fully finished, he goes to their graves. He’s the one that argued for them to be together, and in the end he’d just bought a family plot. None of them came from families that had that kind of thing, but this space is big enough for Wilsons and Molinas and whoever else joins their mishmash family long after the names fade to dust. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sits a little bit in front of Reggie, who he had put in the middle, because he thinks Alex and Luke would want to be either side of him, protecting him. It’s sunnier than he thinks it ought to be, but he knows really that it’s fitting. They’d want it to be sunny, he thinks. None of them ever really liked rain. Bobby did, and he has the fondest memory of Rose kissing him for the first time in the middle of a thunderstorm, but his boys had been made of light, and even though he’s not fully convinced that it’s at all fair that there even is a sun here with them gone, he thinks they’re more present in the rays of sun falling through the leaves of the tree in the corner of the plot than they could ever be in the shadow of clouds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I broke up with Rosie and Ray,” he says first of all, because he’d always lead with bad news. “And I’m going to have a daughter.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. I Want My Life, I Want It Back (I Want The Good Times That We Had)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He cries more, but it hurts less. It doesn’t feel like he’s shedding negativity the way the person from his addiction meetings says crying should, but Dr Crystal says that’s bullshit anyway, and that scientists don’t know enough about why people cry to possibly say what crying should do for you. </p>
<p>He starts being able to sing without crumbling apart as soon as he stops, even if he still can’t bring himself to do it in front of anyone, and after a month, he can sing Sunset Curve songs. He calls his manager back and offers to send gift basket after gift basket, but refuses his offer for some kind of comeback.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heyo kiddos, this is the last part. </p>
<p>Disclaimer/trigger warning: this chapter also contains a lot of discussion of grief and character death. <br/>The songs mentioned/referenced in this chapter are This Life I Have by the Wrecks, which is also where the fic anf chapter titles come from, and the song lyrics at the bottom are from My Little Girl by Tim McGraw</p>
<p>Enjoy kiddos :))</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rose and Ray become less cautious with him in the countdown to Carrie-Anne and Julie’s births. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe they just get better at hiding it, he’s not entirely sure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cries more, but it hurts less. It doesn’t feel like he’s shedding negativity the way the person from his addiction meetings says crying should, but Dr Crystal says that’s bullshit anyway, and that scientists don’t know enough about why people cry to possibly say what crying should do for you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He starts being able to sing without crumbling apart as soon as he stops, even if he still can’t bring himself to do it in front of anyone, and after a month, he can sing Sunset Curve songs. He calls his manager back and offers to send gift basket after gift basket, but refuses his offer for some kind of comeback. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lived and breathed for music in exactly the same way the boys did, but he can’t do it, not without them. The stage has always seemed the perfect size for the four of them, and even just singing a song that came out after they died just reminds him that there’s space for Reggie’s incredibly high notes and Alex’s steady harmony and Luke’s improvised lyrics. He can’t think of anything worse than trying to take up that much space by himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They tell him he could do opening acts or small gigs, but he insists that he’s not the man for the job. When they press, he admits that he hasn’t written a single word since his boys died, and that some days just hearing a steady baseline makes him want to curl up and sob for hours. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stop pushing him after that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He learns to knit, and he’s absolutely god awful at it, but when he manages a little orange approximation of Luke’s beanie, Ray hugs him hard enough for himself and Rose, who’s far too big with Julie now to do that kind of thing. He buys a couple patterns and by the time Carrie-Anne is a month from born, he’s made her a little pink hoodie in the same shade as Alex’s favourite, even if he’s not got the logo, as well as a red jacket with black and white running through it. He’s got enough money to commission Louis Vuitton to make replicas of his boy’s signature clothes, but he thinks it’s better, this way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’d all been broke idiots sleeping in Trevor’s garage, trying to make a living off music like it wasn’t a million to one odds. It had never been about the money, even if it wouldn’t have been nice, and to splash out on baby clothes that Carrie would grow out of in seconds would probably be grounds for them to haunt him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He considers doing it for that very reason, just to see them again, but then he reminds himself that they deserve peace, and he can’t bear the thought of dragging them away from the killer concert they’re probably putting on wherever they are, and he picks up the needles again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lola doesn’t come by often, but after Carrie kicks for the first time, she comes over for dinner and lets him feel, and she lets him move her in when her due date is a week away for a couple weeks, to help minimise the potential risks of postpartum depression, and he gets used to having people in the house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lola doesn’t quite take to pregnancy the way Rose does, she doesn’t enjoy it, and clearly just wants the whole thing to be over, but she’s far more graceful than Trevor imagines he could ever be while growing an entire human, and he grows incredibly fond of her. He’s got no expectations that she’ll decide she wants to be a mother after all once Carrie is born, but he does hope he can at least continue to call her his friend. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last week is a nightmare of checking the paint jobs are perfect and that the entire house is baby-proofed, even though Carrie and Julie won’t be strong enough to support their own heads for months. He commissions a thick oak bookshelf with a little bumblebee, a rose and a cartoon sun carved into one side, and four kittens fighting over a ball of yarn on the other, because their first music teacher in the fifth grade always described them as four cats, desperate to be the one with the yarn, but too eager to please to deprive the others of it. They’d never really grown up out of that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’d never really gotten the chance to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When it arrives, he stares at it, catatonic, for over an hour, until Ray and Rose arrive. He lets Ray set out the baby books and the framed photo he has of their first concert and their first date, and Rose’s first concert with the Petal Pushers, and the the first photo Ray took professionally, and he lets Rose sit plastered against his side while he shakes silently. When it’s done, Ray sits on his other side, and he wills himself to fall apart just so he can rationalise their bracketing him like they always used to. He doesn’t, and he can’t, and so he just sits there, and does his best to squash down the thread of hope unspooling around his heart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carrie-Anne Regina Wilson is born at 14:06 on the seventeenth of July in 2003, at seven pounds and eight ounces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She cries endlessly, and shits endlessly, and vomits endlessly, and Trevor has never loved anyone as much in his life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julie Lucile Molina is born at 04:53 on the twenty ninth of Julie in 2003, at eight pounds and ten ounces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She also cries endlessly, and shits endlessly, and vomits endlessly, and Trevor thinks that if Carrie didn’t just edge her out on account of being his biological daughter, he’d love her more than he’d ever loved anyone in his life. Even as it is, she’s light eons ahead of everyone else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lyrics start floating around in his head when Carrie is three weeks old.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He still doesn’t dare touch his guitar, but he starts noting chord progressions down, even if he doesn’t quite feel comfortable with the words, yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sings lullabies to Carrie-Anne, and sometimes Julie, and he sings ballads when Rose falls asleep half pressed against him, and he sings Spanish pop when Ray convinces him to help make breakfast after the girls have had a bad night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The lyrics bouncing around his mind start to fall into two categories. Two songs, really.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first one is shitty and bitter and mainly just a summary of his mental state since the boys died. He doesn’t think he’ll ever do anything with it. It puts too much blame on his boys, like he’s not the one who took their deaths and sharpened it into a weapon to direct at himself while Ray and Rose did their best to control the bleeding. He thinks he owes it to himself to write it down in full and sing it once, maybe to himself, but after that, he’ll probably scrap it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second one is to Carrie. And Julie, really. He may not be what he wishes he could be to Ray and Rose, but she’s still as much his little girl as Carrie is. It’s slower, and country, because he thinks he will finish this one properly, and maybe even release it, and Reggie never got to do his country album. A single in his honour may not be quite was he was aiming for, but it’s the most Trevor’s capable of, right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t really mean to hide it from Ray and Rose, and he doesn’t realise he has been until Ray walks in on him writing, Julie in his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray lights up immediately. “Rosie!” He calls, not taking his eyes off Trevor. “Rose, vida mía, c’mere. Bee’s writing again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose appears in moments, hair wild around her face. She keeps complaining about how exhausted she looks, but to Trevor she looks every inch as beautiful as she always has. “If you’re fucking with me, I swear to God, Ray-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s for duckie,” Trevor says, before she can kill her fiancé. “The song. It’s for duckie.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose’s eyes are full of tears before she reaches the desk, and then she’s practically on top of him, hair in his mouth and arms squeezing around his shoulders like she’s trying to kill him. “I’m so fucking proud of you, amor.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rosie-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, shut up,” she insists, cradling his jaw with both hands. “We can have conversations later, I don’t care, Bee, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>writing again. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I didn’t - I didn’t know if we’d ever see you do that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray appears at her shoulder, Julie mysteriously vanished. “It was our checkpoint,” he says, like that’s supposed to mean something to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Checkpoint?” Trevor asks, looking between them gormlessly. “What checkpoint? What are you both on about?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray goes red, and Rose takes the lead, like always. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When you came back, you were so… I don’t even know, Cielo,” she says slowly, searching in his eyes for something. He doesn’t know if she finds it, but she continues anyway. “Better than you were when you left, but still hurting so much. To protect ourselves, and you, I guess, we said we weren’t going to pursue anything-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least not until - until if - you started writing again,” Ray interrupts. He’s never been one to start things off, but he gets impatient, where Rose likes to explain in full.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I- what?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose rolls her eyes, but it’s impossibly fond. “You didn’t think we’d just moved on, did you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh. Yes?” He says slowly. “I’m pretty sure. I. What’s going on?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Imbécil,” she breathes, pressing her forehead against his. “The both of you. So cute, but nothing going on up here, huh?” She jokes, flicking her finger against his temple. “We still love you, idiot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” He looks to Ray, who’s nodding encouragingly. “Why?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose takes in a deep breath like she’s prepared to go on a rant, and he holds a hand up. “No, no, we don’t need to do this again. It’s not a self hatred thing - not mostly, I’m not magically better - I’m just. I hurt you guys. A lot. We have daughters, now. I’m. Confused?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray leans against the desk. “Well, we wouldn’t exactly be diving back into where we were before, Bee.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly,” Rose agrees, resting her head on Ray’s shoulder. “We’d go from the beginning. Dates. Coffee. Dinner. Pretending ginger ale is champagne as we celebrate las nenas finally falling asleep. We’ve been co-parenting this entire time, Trev. I don’t think this will make much of a difference.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you can say no,” Ray adds, dropping a kiss on Rose’s forehead. “Obviously you can say no. But… we still love you. I think you still love us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor glances between them endlessly, and eventually clears his throat. “Um. Yeah. I mean… of course. Yes. I’m kinda in shock right now? So excuse the… everything. But yeah… I’d like that.” He laughs and leans back in his chair. “I’d really fucking like that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>——</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finishes the song three days after Carrie turns three months old. He’s laid out on the couch, with Rose sprawled across his chest, and Ray sat on the floor next to them, head resting against his shoulder, when the final words click into place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t make them move, obviously. None of them have been getting enough sleep as it is, so he types out the words as carefully as he can into a text and sends it to himself, then slings his arm around Rose’s waist and lets himself doze off too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he wakes up the words are still pressing against the forefront of his mind, but before he can fuck around with them and finish the song, Carrie starts crying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, duckie,” he soothes quietly, bouncing her as best he can while he screws the lid on a bottle. “C’mon there, Carrie, shush up while daddy finishes up, then we can go find Rosie and see if she’ll sing to you, huh?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carrie perks up at the mention of Rose, who’s quickly becoming her favourite, and he laughs, finally sorting the lid out, then starts circling the kitchen as he feeds her. “There we go, look at you, gorgeous, you got your beautiful smile all from me didn’t you? Absolutely you did.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ray laughs from where he’s appeared in the doorway. “Good to see your ego never deflates.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With a face as pretty as mine?” Trevor jokes, leaning up for a kiss as he passes. “How could I?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, of course,” Ray agrees, mock serious. “You’re absolutely correct.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Damn straight, sunshine.” He smiles nervously. “Uh, I think I finished it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes him less than a millisecond to figure it out. “Shit, really?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor nods. “Yeah… I think it’s ready.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God, bee, Cielo, I’m so proud of your,” Ray breathes, kissing his forehead. “You ready to show us?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so.” He nods again, offering Carrie and the bottle up to Ray, who takes her easily. “Is. Do you know where my guitar is?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s here,” Rose says, “I was thinking of putting it on display, or something, so I put it here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He almost backs out when he sees the case. It’s the first time in almost two years that he’ll be touching it. He thinks of Luke and Alex and Reggie, and how he’d never felt closer to them than when they were playing together, and he picks it up. It takes him a minute to situate himself, but then it’s time, and it’s oppressive, at first, the weight of Ray and Rose watching him. He feels something in the air shift behind him, and he imagines it’s his boys, come to see him play. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hopes they’re proud of him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Gotta hold on easy as I let you go</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Gonna tell how much I love you</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Though you think you already know</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments and kudos are much appreciated if you enjoyed this :))</p></blockquote></div></div>
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